


Loss

by FlirtyFroggy



Series: What You Want [10]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sadness, bad decision making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door open and close, and he glanced over to see who had come in. The whisky burned a little harder when he saw who it was. Of course. Everybody knew to leave him alone on a night like tonight; nobody who knew him would come looking for him. Nobody except Rafa.</i>
</p><p>After they both lose in the third round of the 2015 US Open, David and Rafa drown their sorrows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written anything for this series for two years (!!!), and it's only a little bit of a thing, but I had to get this out.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not meant to imply anything about any actual people or their lives. It's just for fun.

David generally preferred space after a hard loss, which was why he was sitting alone in the bar, steadily working his way through the hotel’s supply of whisky. He didn’t even like whisky really, but it had seemed appropriate somehow, the burn in his throat nicely balancing the burn in his legs, and he’d found after the first couple of glasses he didn’t mind the taste so much. The barman didn’t bother him except to refill his glass, and nor did anyone else. He had been on the tour long enough to know where to stay and where people were the most discrete. He liked this place because people left him alone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door open and close, and he glanced over to see who had come in. The whisky burned a little harder when he saw who it was. Of course. Everybody knew to leave him alone on a night like tonight; nobody who knew him would come looking for him. Nobody except Rafa. 

His eyes fell on David straight away and he gave him a smile that, if anything, made him look even sadder. David noted the slump of his shoulders and the way his feet dragged ever so slightly on the carpet as he walked towards him, and signaled the barman for another drink. Part of him wanted to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, point out that they had barely even spoken for months beyond what was contractually required, tell him that he couldn’t just do this anymore, couldn’t just turn up when David didn’t want him there and be welcome anyway. What he did was stand up, pull him into a hug, and ask him if he was okay.

“Yeah, I’m—” Rafa began, pulling on his resigned sad-but-determined press conference face. Then the expression faltered. “No, not really,” he said, and collapsed into the seat beside the one David had just vacated. David sat beside him as the barman brought them their drinks. They were drawing a few glances from the people in the bar. Or rather, Rafa was.

They didn’t talk at all for a while, then they talked about the decor of the bar, about whether the room service was any good here, about how Rafa’s hotel was nice but a bit impersonal. They toasted Feli’s victory, cursed the French and Italians, and bitched about the press. They very much did not talk about them, about what they were, and had been, and would never be again.

~~

“Congratulations on the engagement, by the way. It’s about fucking time, Ferru.”

“Thanks. We didn’t want to rush into anything.”

“You’ve been together for about 300 years. If you rushed any less you’d turn to stone.”

~~

“So. Those Hilfiger ads…”

“Oh, shut up.”

~~

“I just don’t know what to do next,” Rafa said, his words beginning to trip over each other.

“Go home to your thirteen Grand Slam titles?” David suggested. It came out far more bitter than he intended. He had truly never begrudged Rafa his success, no-one deserved it more than he did, and he himself had had a career most players would kill for and which wasn’t over yet, even if he could feel the sand trickling ever more quickly through his fingers. But he was so frustrated. With everything. Rafa was warm and solid against his side and he kept touching him; draping an arm across his shoulders or resting a hand briefly on his knee. As if he had forgotten. As if he didn’t know they weren’t like this any more.

“I don’t want Grand Slam titles,” Rafa said with a narrow-eyed look David couldn’t interpret. David’s scepticism at this statement must have shown on his face because Rafa laughed and said, “Alright, I do want Grand Slam titles. But what I really want is to just be able to play again. Really play. I can deal with losing, but I’m tired of feeling so lost. I shouldn’t feel lost on a tennis court.” David had thought the whisky had numbed his throat, but there was still a painful lump forming there at Rafa’s words, and at the edge of despair in his voice. He wrapped an arm around Rafa’s waist and gave it a little squeeze in the absence of anything more constructive or helpful to offer. “I want… I want…” Rafa’s head fell onto David’s shoulder. “I miss you,” he grumbled into David’s t-shirt. The lump in David’s throat seemed to shift downwards, until it was lodged in his chest. “I miss us. Not just us, I mean I miss _us_. The way things were. Before, you know?” And David wanted to say that he didn’t know, because that didn’t make any sense. But it did make sense. It made perfect sense. “I never thought this would happen. I always thought even if we didn’t work out we would still be… you know.”

“Yeah. I know,” David sighed.

“Where’s Marta?” Rafa asked, lifting his head slightly and squinting up at him. It was almost funny how much drunker he was than David, despite David’s considerable head-start. He never had been able to hold his alcohol.

“She’s up in our room.”

“Oh. Do you think she would maybe go out? For a bit,” Rafa said, and he was definitely drunk. Sober Rafa would never have suggested such a thing.

“Are you asking me to kick my fiancée out of our hotel room to make way for you?”

“Well it sounds bad when you put it like that,” he muttered.

“Only when I put it like that?” David laughed. He pulled out his phone and opened up his texts.

_Rafa’s here._

The reply was almost immediate. _Going for dinner with Paco. Room’s all yours. You ok?_

_That wasn’t why I was telling you. Thanks. I don’t know. Love you._

_Liar! Please be careful. Love you too._

David put his phone away with a smile. “Come on,” he said, shaking Rafa off his shoulder. “Upstairs.”

~~

There was none of the confused tension of their early encounters, none of the excitement and trepidation of their burgeoning relationship, and none of the easy familiarity that they later fell into. It was awkward, really, and David wondered if they should just order room service and try to be friends like they had sworn they would before they both retreated into silence and avoidance. But the flaring desire in David’s gut was just the same, as was the way Rafa looked at him, the way he cupped David’s jaw and tilted his head back to kiss him. “Are you,” Rafa gasped, as he pulled back. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No,” David said, kissing him again.

~~

New York may never sleep, but it was definitely louder in the morning. David winced at the blaring car horns and rolled over, straight into a very familiar back. He smiled and wrapped his arm around Rafa’s waist. “Morning,” Rafa murmured, turning to face him.

“Morning.” Rafa kissed him softly, and David pulled him closer, sinking into it, into him. He wrapped himself around Rafa and told himself that this was fine, this was good. This could work.

**Author's Note:**

> So, will I ever go back and fill in what happened in the last two years? Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? Certainly not me.


End file.
